


the caged bird beats his wing

by ProtoDan



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Backstory, Fanon Heavy, Gen, THE LACK OF BACKSTORY FOR SWAIN MAKES ME ANGRY AND I HAD TO FIX IT OKAY
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 04:56:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4377971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProtoDan/pseuds/ProtoDan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each night after prayer he smothers his tears before his mother and father see, and he hates that the two people who should love him most in the world never have and never will. He hates them, too, and he hates that he hates them.</p><p>So much bitterness in such a little body. It all culminates into what Jericho despises the absolute most: “I hate being powerless,” he says finally, his voice quiet and serious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the caged bird beats his wing

Deep in the corroded heart of Noxus lies a maze, a network of alleys and unmarked dirt roads home to the lowest of the low, the most pitiful and pathetic, the so-called masterminds of the criminal underbelly. Dirty orphans beg on street corners, whores and fortune-tellers peddle their wares, conmen and cutpurses hiding in the shadows, fishing for opportunity and finding none. There are homes here, meager as they are, decrepit and decaying.

In hollowed-out shops long looted dry, covens of witches gather in the dead of night to practice their arts. Trap doors sealed with rust and dark magic mute the chants of ancient churches pleading to even older gods. The floors are littered with animal bones and stained in blood. Children, underfed and underloved, play amongst the bones. They murmur to each other in hushed tones, little words of rebellion, pledges to remember their friends when they finally, truly break free this time.

Others of their numbers listen with heavy hearts and bruised eyes, repeated prayers of repentance still stinging their tongues. They know too well the price of freedom; their mouths have gone numb from begging their cruel old gods for mercy.

In a third camp, alone, there is a boy. He is only some eight years old, with thin, dark hair and wary black eyes. At the advisement of the church small council of elders, his parents named him Jericho Abbadon--he who will bring ruin. He listens carefully to his peers, taking in all available information, and sifting it thoroughly in a mind too old for the skull that houses it. It is plain to him that he will never even have the opportunity to run, let alone the chance to succeed.

His mother, the church’s appointed senior priestess, utters howling prayers in another room, and Jericho can see in his mind the way she swings and sways with her swirling words, knows the exact ceremony she performs from firsthand memory. Jericho suppresses a shudder; she is blessing him. He does not want her blessings. His father's voice joins hers in terrible harmony, and they plead to an old, familiar demon of theirs for power, for fortune, for their only son to live long and conquer.

Jericho will take over the church when they die. They will die at a young age in a blood sacrifice, and most likely their blood will coat the boy's hands to complete the transfer of power. He has heard the exact process of succession more times than he cares to count, and he hates it. Becoming head of the church appeals even less to him than the blessings of their abyssal deities.

While his parents are communing with the third tier of hell--and Jericho knows every tier, knows the overseer demon of each--he can dare to step outside. They will not emerge from their chamber for hours yet. So long as he does not walk beyond the steps, he will not be punished. Jericho stands, catching the alarmed glances of his peers, and walks up to the trap door. He shuts his eyes, muttering the unlocking incantation until he hears that affirmative click. A rush of cool air hits his face when he pushes the door up and open. Fresh, wonderful open air.

It is nighttime outside, not that time has ever meant much to him. The church keeps their congregants in near constant darkness, alleviated only by flickering candlelight and the occasional soul fire, on special occasions. (Souls are very expensive, and not to be wasted.) The boy knows why, of course; his parents cannot guide their followers properly if they are exposed to outside ideas, and what better way to protect them from heresy than by locking them completely away from the world? But still, he craves the outdoors, craves the moonlight and the owl's call.

 _Well met, small one._ A voice, feminine and malicious, in the boy's head. He knows it well.

"Well met," Jericho echoes quietly. He looks up to see a familiar bird perched on a nearby fencepost, fiery eyes--all six of them--trained on him.

 _Your kin have let you out of your cage_ , she notes, preening.

"No," he says. He stares pointedly down at the runes etched into the lowest step at the door. "They never do."

The raven makes a small chuckling sound. Her feathers fluff, and she hops towards him to alight on his shoulder. She nibbles at his ear.

This raven is only a vessel for one of the church's favorite demons, he knows. She appears in her larger form at nearly every ceremony the boy has been involved in, whether from summoning or simply to observe and be amused. She speaks to him often, and knows him by name. (Jericho knows hers too, but his underdeveloped human tongue cannot quite pronounce it no matter how much he tries. So he calls her Beatrice, the closest approximation of the demonic syllables.)

 _Poor little Jericho_ , she coos, beak tugging at a strand of his hair. _You can dismantle the congregation when you kill them._

Jericho smiles wearily. “Perhaps,” he says. He has considered the possibility many times now, that when he takes to power he could scatter the flock, but he knows that the elders would destroy him body and soul if they even had an inkling of his plan.

Beatrice senses his anxiety, hopping closer to his head and gently pecking him on the cheek. _I could protect you_.

He glances at the raven sidelong, quirking an eyebrow. On principle, he has a difficult time believing Beatrice’s words. There have been enough incidents in the church--bloody, gruesome incidents--for him to know not to trust a promise from a demon at face value. Besides which, she has tempted him with similar offers before, and there is always a steep cost. This he has also seen in the church, in the faces of hollowed-out old men who cannot die but who have killed more friends than they can count, all to sate their patron demon’s bloodlust.

Jericho shivers a little bit. “Why would you do that?” he asks. “If I dispel the church, I will have  no power. If I have no power, you have nothing to take from me.” Besides which, if he dissolves the church, its congregants will have nowhere to go. They will be lost sheep in an unfamiliar world not suited to their ancient worldview. Even Jericho himself isn't sure where he could go without the church.

Beatrice chuckles again and flaps her wings, jumping up to perch on his head. Jericho sighs to himself. He has grown accustomed to this behavior; she tends to jump onto his scalp when she feels particularly playful. That doesn’t mean he likes it much.

 _You’re a clever boy, small one,_ she tells him, settling into a feathery loaf on his head.

“As if I didn’t already know,” Jericho says, barely exerting the effort to keep back the pride in his voice.

Another chuckle. Beatrice starts combing his hair with her beak as she continues. _A clever boy will go far in life, once he’s free from the shackles of his kin,_ she says. _You will have much to offer._

Jericho tries to raise an eyebrow at the raven, but it's more than a little difficult due to his inability to actually see her. After a moment, he settles for an exasperated sigh and crosses his arms. He shakes his head a little more aggressively than necessary, just to get her off his head. With an annoyed squawk, Beatrice jumps down onto his shoulder and nips his ear hard enough to draw blood.

"Why would you want to help me?" Jericho asks, rubbing his ear. "Don't demons have better things to do than rescue little boys?"

Beatrice blinks each pair of eyes individually while she considers her answer. Preening, she speaks. _It's true that I have better things to do,_ she admits. _I could be bringing about the end of the world, the fall of the gods._

"You have no reason to help me escape, then," Jericho asserts, giving the raven a disapproving look, "unless..."

She cocks her head to one side, her feathers fluffing a little. It almost seems like a challenge. Other than that, though, she gives no reply.

"Unless you think I would be able to help you somehow," he says slowly.

 _Clever human_. Beatrice fluffs again, stretching her neck to comb her beak through Jericho's hair. _Did your parents teach you how best to consort with the world beyond?_

Jericho wrinkles his nose. "I've overheard their conversations," he admits. "I know what works and what gets you manipulated."

Beatrice laughs. _Such a clever boy!_ she declares, and Jericho can't help but think she might be sarcastic. She usually is.

If she is sarcastic, though, then Jericho fears the raven is playing him for a fool, tugging at his hopes only to snatch them away. Just like the church, she will make him feel special, worthy of otherworldly power, but only seek to use him for her own wicked ends. He knows the game well enough, even if he is not nearly old enough to even think of playing.

Unless he can get out of whatever deal the demon has cooked up in her head, he should not play, should not even continue the conversation lest she rope him in.

 _I see that clever little head working,_ small one, Beatrice says, her tone delighted. _Go on. Outplay the world beyond. Such a clever boy._

Jericho narrows his eyes at her. "You won't trick me," he says firmly.

The raven chuckles again. _Of course not._

Jericho sighs. Discourse with Beatrice is like holding a debate with a wall sometimes. He sits down on the steps, startling the raven with his sudden movement. She caws disapprovingly, pecking at his nose before settling comfortably on his knee.

Loath as he is to admit it, Jericho is curious as to what Beatrice might offer him. He always has been, since the first time she showed interest in him. She first spoke to him directly during one of his father's rites a year or so ago, knowing him by name without any introduction. Her form then had been massive, filling the entire sacrificial chamber with fire and feathers, voice booming and containing multitudes. Jericho cowered and cried at the sight of her, and his father beat him for his weakness.

But that night, in a display radically different from her under-demons, Beatrice appeared without summon in Jericho's sleeping chamber. He assumed, at first, that he was having another night terror, until she shrank down to the size of a normal Noxian raven and spoke to him in a tone that, if he wasn't mistaken, was practically motherly.

Beatrice promised that night to get him out, and Jericho has been so desperate for escape since the day he was born that he nearly trusted a demon at her word outright. Her words come back to him at night, when he is shaking from fear after service, before he dreams of sunlight and open roads. He just hasn't figured out a way to outmaneuver her.

"What is it you think I can give you?" Jericho asks, scratching thoughtfully behind Beatrice's head.

The raven inclines her head, welcoming further attention. Jericho could almost forget for a moment that this isn’t an ordinary bird perched on his leg, were it not for her six eyes. _Were you free,_ she says after a moment, _you could do anything. Be anyone you wanted to be. No more shackles to this family that sees a tool where a boy should be._

Jericho tries to be patient, he really does. He doesn't know when his parents will realize he left the house or how much more time out in the moonlight he has left. This dilly-dallying tests his nerves. "Your point?" he asks, and he makes a concentrated effort not to make a face at Beatrice.

 _What do you hate most about this place?_ Beatrice replies.

What doesn't he hate about it? How could he possibly categorize his loathing from least to greatest? Jericho almost says such, but he keeps silent, considering the question for a long moment. He hates the fear, the knowledge that anything he might do improperly or not in accordance with the cult's wishes and philosophies will be punished harshly. Each night after prayer he smothers his tears before his mother and father see, and he hates that the two people who should love him most in the world never have and never will. He hates them, too, and he hates that he hates them.

So much bitterness in such a little body. It all culminates into what Jericho despises the absolute most: “I hate being powerless,” he says finally, his voice quiet and serious.

Jericho is so small, so significant yet insignificant, his daily activities and entire life dictated wholly by the will of the congregation. When he wakes, he wakes to the elders’ voices ushering in the morning. When he eats, his wants and likes are never accounted for. He is told that he is important, that he will change the course of history, that he will usher in a new age.

Yet if he speaks up, questions the teachings of his elders, he is shouted down and thrashed, as if a leader can never question or dictate the path of his future followers. His parents have locked him in a room alone before with nothing but a soul-light and their scriptures, to remind him of his place and their doctrines. He is not allowed to be a child. He is not even a person, no matter how much they treat him as if he were an adult.

Beatrice regards him in contemplative silence for a long time. She steps up, hopping onto his shoulder before combing her beak through his hair again. The gesture is strangely comforting, even coming from a demon. It's nearly maternal, he supposes, although he's never been sure what the definition of that even is in relation to him.

 _You could have power_ , she says, nosing his cheek. _A clever boy like you could rule the world in time. Even sooner with my help. You could guide a nation, bring it to glory._

Jericho squints at her, disbelieving. "You think my mother hasn't told me that already?" he says.

Beatrice chuckles. _Of course. But you could shape the land for good, clever boy,_ she says. _Take the people out of their squalor, show them better paths. Inspire them. Guide them. Rule them to make their lives better, not to control them._ Jericho raises an eyebrow, but does not reply. Beatrice clacks her beak, pecking his nose. _With a nation behind you, you could provide the world beyond with anything we might ask from you._

Ah, there it is. Jericho huffs and crosses his arms. "You want blood sacrifices, don't you?" he asks. He knows this for fact; his own blood has been spilt on the altars for the dark pantheon before.

_Of course._

"I won't feed you a country!" Jericho exclaims, his calmness breaking in disgust. He flinches at the sound and loudness of his own voice, curling up on himself in preparation for punishment even though neither of his parents are here.

Beatrice hops up, startled by his sudden outburst. Affronted, she fluffs her feathers and drops down to his knee. _I would not ask you to mindlessly slaughter,_ she says. Jericho hadn’t realized until she started doing it that it was even possible to preen in an offended manner. _But wars happen, and with them comes bloodshed. Your enemies… the enemies of Noxus would make a fitting supper,_ she tells him, her voice incredibly self-satisfied in his mind.

Jericho grimaces. "You're horrible," he tells the raven.

 _I do not ask you to do your own killing, small one._ Beatrice tugs at his trouser leg and tilts her head. _I will not ask you to do anything you would not do of your own free will. Measure that against your brood mother._

Jericho says nothing, instead shutting his eyes and meditating on her words. What does she think him willing to do? He has had to prove to his parents that he is obedient to the point of killing innocent animals for their rituals; does the demon expect him to slaughter for her too? The idea makes his stomach turn, but if it were for his freedom and not mindless cruelty...

In that moment, Jericho realizes that he would absolutely be willing to kill for his chance at escape. He knows he should be horrified at the revelation, but he can't find it in himself to be. Besides, he only has access to congregants until Beatrice sets him free, and none of them deserve his horror.

After a long moment of silence, Jericho shuts his eyes. He mustn't look too eager. Beatrice is insufferable when she's smug. "I'll think about it," he says.

Beatrice chuckles. _You know where to find me, small one._


End file.
